


A Hit of That Heaven and Hell

by kyrilu



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, Pre-Canon, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: He loses so many days to dancing.
Relationships: Caleb Covington/Willie
Comments: 16
Kudos: 70





	A Hit of That Heaven and Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I’m legitimately emotional that I’ve finally gotten through my writer’s block. Of course _this_ is what I write. I was going to title this “sold my soul to a three-piece”...
> 
> Apologies for any errors in regard to skateboarding lingo or language anachronisms. (My headcanon is that Willie died sometime in the 1980s.)

1.

When Willie meets Caleb Covington, he’s skating in the empty pool of somebody’s backyard. It had taken some effort to drain the pool -- dragging the pool pump and drainage hose out of the shed -- but he finds that he can do pretty much anything if he puts his mind to it, especially if it has to do with skating. 

So, Willie rides the pool. He slopes its walls, his board arcing up in the night sky. Up, down, his hand hitting the ground as he Bert slides. Long and loose, his hair streams behind him -- he doesn’t bother wearing a helmet this time, because, seriously, why should he if he’s dead?

He’s interrupted by the patter of applause. 

Standing by the shallow end, there is a man in a dark suit. “Masterfully done,” the stranger says. 

Willie halts at the basin of the pool. He’s only met two other ghosts before, and it’s weird when you finally find someone who can see you and talk to you. The first was, memorably, a crazy guy who had chased Willie out of a construction site for skating on the ramps. Apparently the guy had died in a freak concrete accident a year earlier. 

He really hopes this guy’s isn’t wigged out like the construction site dude, but he guesses that death can do that to people.

“Thanks,” Willie says, kicking up his board to his hand. “Um. You’re not haunting this house or something, are you? Sorry for trespassing if this is your place.” 

“Not at all,” the stranger says. “I was on business. Searching for clients for a venture of mine.” He gestures toward the mansion behind him. 

“There are other ghosts inside?” 

“No.” The man looks amused, like he’s got a secret that Willie should already know. He says, “You’ve passed recently.” 

Willie nods, and he makes his way toward the ladder on the deep end. “Yeah. Hit by a truck when crossing the street. My board -- my real board -- was in pieces. But then I figured out I can make it appear and reappear like it had never been destroyed. Like some kind of magic, y’know?” 

A beat, and the stranger vanishes, and he materializes by the deep end, standing over the ladder. He offers his hand to help Willie climb, and Willie can make out that he has glittering blue eyes underneath the brim of his top hat. 

The stranger smiles. “Magic. I might know a thing or two about that.” 

Like the idiot that he is, Willie takes Caleb Covington’s hand. 

2.

The Hollywood Ghost Club is fancy and bright, performers cavorting and guests discussing past parties and events. Willie doesn’t think any of them have ever touched a skateboard before.

He sees Caleb mingling in the crowd. Caleb bows to a blonde woman clad in a red dress, and a single rose appears in his hand. The woman titters and accepts it. 

“He does that,” someone says, and Willie turns to see a fellow guest. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, she’s wearing a dark dress frilled on the edges. He recognizes her as one of the musicians who had played in the show, her fingers like quicksilver over the piano. She says, plainly, “You’re new.”

“Yeah,” Willie says, feeling self-conscious. He’d managed to get himself into an outfit that’s marginally more formal than his usual street clothes, but he’s aware that he sticks out like a sore thumb. “My name’s Willie. Mr. Covington invited me to stop by, but this isn’t really my scene.” 

It _had_ been awesome to eat and drink again -- the waiters had served ham and roasted potatoes and champagne that tastes like sweet-tangy-apple-cider -- but he’s gotten so used to not eating and drinking that it’s more of a novelty than anything. 

The woman tilts her head to the side, accessing him. “When I was younger, my mother used to tell me stories about fairies. Not fun little ones like Tinkerbell, but the dangerous ones. The fair folk. I should’ve listened.” 

“What--?” 

“Cecilia,” says a smooth voice, and Caleb appears by the young woman’s side, his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think William is interested in children’s tales.” Addressing Willie, he tells him, “My deepest apologies for abandoning you on your first night here. I was preoccupied with the show and entertaining other new guests… I should’ve shown you around and made proper introductions. Will you forgive me for my terrible manners?” 

And just like before, he makes a flower appear -- and it isn’t a red rose, but a blossom with dark blue petals, matching the shade of Willie’s collared shirt. 

Willie’s face warms. “‘Course. It’s okay. And how do you even do tricks like that, Mr. Covington? I can only magic up my board and nothing else.” 

“Trade secret,” Caleb says, with a wink, and gently, he pins the flower against Willie’s chest. “Souvenir for the night. You can go if you want to, William. I won’t keep you if you’ve found the festivities not to your taste.” 

“No, it’s -- nice,” Willie assures him. “I’m not gonna ditch right now.” 

“Good, good,” Caleb says. “Let me make it up to you. Come. Follow me.” 

The girl in the black dress -- Cecilia - melts back into the crowd, but not before she casts a last fleeting glance at Willie. He wonders what she had meant when she mentioned the fair folk, whatever they are. 

3.

Caleb seems to have realized that the hustle and bustle is overwhelming for Willie, and he ushers him into another room across the hallway. With a wave of his hand, the guests inside disperse.

It’s a cozy lounge with couches and armchairs. There is an unmanned bar on one end of the room. On the tables, crushed cigarettes cool in ashtrays, emitting their last smoky gasps. Willie notices that the walls are covered in artwork: flowers in vases, splotches of abstract color, the beach by the sea.

Caleb asks, “Would you like anything to drink?” 

Willie nods, and when he turns around, there is a tray on one of the coffee tables. Caleb pours two glasses from a tall expensive-looking bottle. “Bourbon,” Caleb explains. “I don’t imagine you died of age, but what are drinking laws to the dead?”

“I drank some of the bubbly stuff earlier tonight,” Willie admits. And it’s not like he’s never drank with his friends before he died, skaters who had much different parties than the Hollywood Ghost Club -- swilling beer and rolling joints, while they bragged about the newest skating spot that they discovered; the maneuvers they had pulled off; the modifications made to their boards. 

Caleb takes a seat on an armchair, glass in hand, his blue eyes keen in the semi-darkness. Willie follows his lead, sinking in a plush couch beside him. He takes an experimental sip of the bourbon. It tastes strong and smoky, coupled with hints of sweetness that reminds him of a vanilla shake. 

Willie clears his throat. “The show earlier… it was cool. You guys really throw parties like this every night?” 

“Indeed. Here, and all over the world. You should’ve seen last Mardi Gras.” Caleb describes a stunt he did -- walking on water in the hotel’s pond, while the other guests, drunk and delighted, had tried and failed to copy him. The ghosts had phased right through, while the lifers just got wet. 

The mental image of the fancy-clothed party attendees flailing and disoriented makes Willie laugh. 

Caleb looks pleased by Willie’s reaction. “I told you I knew a thing or two about magic, didn’t I?” 

Caleb keeps telling Willie stories -- Amsterdam, Madrid, Las Vegas -- and he gets Willie to talk about himself, too. His old crew: Jaime, his oldest friend whose family lives in the apartment across the hall from Willie’s; Ray, who had cried his eyes out when they’d watched _E.T._ in theaters; Katsuo, who airbrushes elaborate designs onto his board; and Teddy, who can ride vert like Tony fucking Alva, and everyone thought that he’d be the first one to die from a skateboarding accident. 

It’s been weird to watch them as an invisible ghost. It’s even weirder to watch his mom and his sister. So, mostly, he doesn’t. He checks on them from time to time -- like hollering whenever any of the guys pull off a gnarly move -- but for the most part, he keeps to himself. Barreling down the streets through cars and passersby. Finding more skate spots and perfecting his own skating. 

The second ghost who Willie had met told him about the “unfinished business” deal. Willie wonders if his is to become the world’s greatest ghost skater. 

Eventually, conversation with Caleb winds down. The night has rushed by in a bourbon blur, and he feels like he’s flying higher than any aerial. Willie mumbles something about how he should leave, “Don’t think I’ve ever tried skating this hammered before,” even though it’s not like safety’s an issue (ha!), and Caleb says, “You can stay the night. This a hotel, and there’s always a room open.” 

“Yeah?” Willie says.

Caleb has that smile on his face, the same one from last night, the one that’s sly and slow and knowing. He’s like a king reclined on his throne, languid, expectant. 

It seems like another one of Caleb’s magic tricks, but Willie knows it’s not. It’s all Willie, clumsy and hungry; one moment, sitting on the couch; the other, clambering on Caleb’s lap, leaning down to press a whiskey-flavored kiss, then the next. Caleb shudders underneath him, his fingers twisting in Willie’s hair and pulling him closer. 

Abruptly, Caleb stops. Pulls back. His hand still in Willie’s hair, he says, softly, “Is this what you want, William?” 

“You said,” Willie says, “that you wanted to make up for abandoning me earlier, Mr. Covington.” 

“Caleb,” he corrects. “I suppose I’m obligated to live up to my reputation of giving my guests whatever they want. Not merely the food, the drinks, the dancing--”

“I don’t dance,” Willie cuts in. He had only watched as the performers and partygoers sashayed and whirled across the stage and the ballroom floor. He was content to stay seated, sampling the appetizers.

“It’s not too different from your skateboarding. Balance, timing, the right stance… it’s all in the footwork.” 

“Sure.” 

“I’m serious,” Caleb says. He closes his eyes, sighs, and distangles his hand from Willie’s hair. “Sleep off the bourbon, William. Tomorrow, I’ll show you how to dance.” He snaps his fingers. 

This time, it is magic, and Willie finds himself in a large suite. He’s now sitting on the biggest bed he’s ever seen in his life, surrounded by piles of cushions. 

Caleb is standing by the bedside. A spark of satisfaction lights up in Willie’s chest as he studies his appearance. Caleb’s fancy suit is ruffled and rumpled now, and _Willie_ had done that. Caleb clicks his fingers again. The bedside lamp flickers off, the room falls into darkness, and then he’s gone.

4.

You might think that being dead would preclude the possibility of hangovers, but Willie wakes up with a killer headache. 

He’s in the bed alone. He’s suddenly aware that this is, in all likelihood, Caleb’s hotel room. A glance at a hatrack sporting top hats confirms his suspicion. 

He wonders if he should regret this -- any of it. But it’s been eight months since he died and he’s missed other people. The only fellow ghosts he had met was that crazy construction guy and an elderly lady who had given him some tips about navigating this half-afterlife. Caleb might be old and odd, but he’s fun -- he’s _magic_ \-- and even if his parties aren’t Willie’s scene, Willie thinks that he could get used to it.

There has to be more to this existence than skating in empty parking lots alone, selfishly wishing that Jaime or Ray or Teddy or Katsuo had been hit by a truck, too. 

For now, he needs to clear his head. He chugs the glass of water left on the bedside table, summons his board, and teleports himself out of the hotel. 

5.

This is how Caleb finds him: Willie is slaloming in the hotel courtyard, weaving in and out of planters where bushes sprout and flowers bloom. Of course he could go through the planters, but that defeats the purpose of the whole exercise. Skating helps -- the fresh air helps -- and his headache recedes to a dull ache.

When he catches sight of Caleb, he hesitates. He makes up his mind, and he pivots toward him -- slingshotting off a corner, knees bent, pushing himself forward with his hand on the pavement -- and he rolls to a stop.

“Hey,” Willie says. 

“Good morning,” Caleb returns. He’s no longer wearing the same black suit like last night, but a tweed gray vest over a buttoned-up shirt. “I believe this is the part where I ask you if you want breakfast.” 

Willie shakes his head. “It’s alright. I think I’ve had enough of eating for the last twenty-four hours.” 

“Well, you’re welcome to still stay, breakfast or not. Our unfinished business from last night, after all.”

“ _Now?_ ” Willie blurts out, mortified. 

Caleb’s laughter is a cackling chuckle. “Dancing,” he reminds him. “I told you I would teach you. Then you can join in. Tonight’s party, tomorrow’s, next week’s -- whenever you’re ready.” 

“I told you I don’t dance,” Willie says, shuffling his Vans awkwardly.

“Dancing is a kind of magic,” Caleb says, his blue eyes bright and solemn. And it’s not like Willie has any other plans, so for not the first time, nor the last, he follows Caleb Covington’s lead. 

6.

So, this is what Willie does. He lets the closest thing to the devil teach him how to swing dance, because he’s handsome in a sharp black suit, promises him laughter and music and whiskey kisses, and because he calls him _William_ in a way that no one else ever has. 

While dancing, Caleb doesn’t seem to mind that Willie’s hands are asphalt ashen. He takes his hands into his, firm and certain, and later, when Willie lunges at him on his bed, leaving gray hand-prints smeared on his white button-up shirt, Caleb doesn’t mind that, either. 

He loses so many days to dancing. 

It should have been hard, giving his soul to someone else. In fact, it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

7.

This is the story of the fair folk: in a fairy ring, do not eat their food. Do not drink their drink. Do not join the circle of dancing fae. You’ll never be able to leave. 


End file.
